


all they see is scars

by yellow_crayon



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A bit of D/S element, And bonds with him, Bucky lives in a dumpster not really, M/M, Magic, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Up all night to get Bucky, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, and Little Steve, because Pre-serum Steve is bossy as hell, he does break into a CVS to steal an inhaler for little Steve, like a homicidal baby duck, no civil war, scary bucky, who mistakes Little Steve as his handler, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7224346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_crayon/pseuds/yellow_crayon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious weapon makes Pre-serum Steve appear in the present day. </p><p>The rogue Winter Soldier mistakes him for his one true handler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the dark of the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeanieBaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeanieBaby/gifts).



> I'm trying to ease myself back into writing, so this is a bit of an exploration with the help of my friend BeanieBaby. She's amazing, go read her works. I never realized I wanted a domestic villains fic till I read one. 
> 
> Anyhow, the chapters are going to be pretty short each time, but I will try to update every few days. Ideally, to get myself back into the swing of things. I had a bunch of major family troubles over the last year, financial problems regarding sick family members and hospital fees. It's just been awful, but I'm hoping things will be better soon because the sick are stable for now, and I can't really do much for them as I am away from home. 
> 
> **NOTE: Little Steve is not from the past, he's a part of Steve, but the weapon separated the two parts. Think Naruto shadow clones.** Hope that makes sense. There will not be a Civil War, instead everyone will be too busy tracking him down. And Bucky did not kill Howard. I just don't want to go there.
> 
> NOTE 2: Title comes from the song 'Skin' by Sixx A.M. and each chapter title is a line of lyrics from 'In the Dark of the Night', which was a song in the movie Anastasia. I couldn't resist. I just had to.
> 
> NOTE 3: Here is the link to the Chinese translation provided by fanternlish. http://fanternlish.lofter.com/post/1e21c04e_ba11844

**:. Avengers .:**

 

The thing is, magic is unpredictable.

The Avengers are well aware of this, what with the whole Chitauri army and Loki brainwashing Clint over to the dark side during the New York incident.

Steve knows magic and magic users are undefined by the logic that governs their everyday thinking, but-

A few feet away, Sam Wilson crouches down and tears off his protective goggles. Steve is rooted to the spot, a curious ringing sound filling his head as the Falcon opens his mouth.

“Do you know what year it is? Who’s the president right now?” Sam asks the fallen figure, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“It’s 1943, president’s Roosevelt. What’s going on? Where am I?” Steve hears the person say past the white noise and blood rushing in his ears.

What was that saying about life being a box of chocolates again? More like a box of explosives.

He swallows thickly.

“What’s taking you guys so long? Mister Sinister’s gone, along with his weapon,” Tony Stark’s voice sounds behind them as he lands. “Wilson, is somebody hurt?”

“No one’s injured, Stark. But Cap did get hit by that blast ray thing.” Sam reaches out and helps the person up.

“Stark? Are we already at the Stark Expo? Bucky said that was tomorrow night…” Steve hears him say, clear confusion in his voice.

_Bucky._

Steve's chest constricts.

“Who’s this?” Tony asks, surprised. Sam doesn’t answer.

“You’re not going to the Expo,” Steve finds himself saying suddenly. The constricting feeling around his lungs intensifies when the small blond man in the tweed jacket turns familiar blue eyes on him. There’s no recognition in his gaze, what with Steve’s headgear and uniform in place.

“What do you mean?” He asks, his whole face scrunching up as he frowns.

“He’s not coming for you. Bucky. He’s-”

Realization lights up in Sam’s eyes. “Cap-”

His old self bristles immediately, small fists flying up in a defensive stance as his eyes light up in a fierce protective rage. “What’d you do to him? You done something to my friend, asshole? Who are you crazy loonies anyway? Where's Bucky?”

Steve swallows.

“Is this-?” Tony jerks a thumb between them and glances at Sam for confirmation. Sam nods. Tony’s eyes widen.

“He’s not coming for you,” Steve repeats. “No one knows where he is.”

“You’re lying!” Scrawny Steve shouts, voice dwindling off to a wheezing cough. Tony eyes him uneasily as if he can’t decide whether or not to reach out and pat him on the back. Sam rushes over instead.

“St-Cap,” Tony corrects himself just in time. He clunks over to Steve in his armor and leans close to his ear. “Is that you before the serum?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you remember?”

“Getting hit by Sinister’s beam, pain, woke up and saw him,” Steve jerks his chin in the general direction of his pre-serum self.

Sam joins the conversation after little Steve’s coughing fit subsides, “Cap, we have to be really careful with this. He could be from the past, and if he finds out too much, it could literally change the course of history if he returns to his own time.”

“I don’t think Sinister’s weapon has that much power,” Steve say doubtfully. “You really think he’s from the past?”

“Well, Thor said the weapon was stolen from Amora, so…” Sam points out, frowning.

“He thinks it’s 1943,” Tony starts, “do you remember what happened in 1943? What’s he on about with the Expo?”

Steve sighs and clenches his fist. “It’s your father's first Stark Expo, we were supposed to go see it. Bucky roped me into a double date. He was to ship out for England the following day...” He smiles sadly, “Told me he was taking me to see the future.”

“So his memory goes up to the day before?” Tony frowns.

“Seems like it,” Sam agrees. “You feel any different?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, no discomfort.”

“Alright, we’ll round up the team, head back to the tower and come up with a plan. In the meantime, we’ll keep calling you 'Cap' so he doesn’t get suspicious.” Tony says. “Little guy’s got a mouth on him. I’m scandalized, Cap.” He grins and attempts to lift Steve’s spirits.

“Yeah, I guess.” He tries to smile back.

“Uh, guys? Where is he?” Sam suddenly says, panic in his voice.

They both whirl around to find the street empty. Sam stares back, eyes wide.

“Shit,” Tony says.


	2. I was tossing and turning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bucky?” There’s the hint of tears in the voice now. “Look at me.”
> 
> The Soldier does as he is told.
> 
> The sight of his true handler makes him weak in the knees. He fights the overwhelmingly strong urge to fall to the small figure’s feet and bare his throat in submission.
> 
> Anything to please his handler.
> 
> Anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesh, this turned out much more angsty than I anticipated. Poor Steves. 
> 
> Let's just say that the events of CA:WS and Avengers: AOU didn't take place too far apart. 
> 
> The reason Bucky has stayed so close to the Avengers HQ is because he wanted to find his handler , AKA Mini-Me, AKA Steve Junior (based on physical size) or Steve Senior (based on era of activeness). Jesus, this is confusing. 
> 
> And no, Little Steve is not a crybaby, he's just got a lot of emotions when it comes to Bucky, okay? 
> 
> So I saw on Google Map that Hell's Kitchen is actually pretty close to Midtown Manhattan where the Avengers Tower is? Correct me if I am wrong. I have never set foot in NYC before in my life. :(
> 
> The Winter Soldier persona is still strong with this one. Hmm.
> 
> Also, I want Pietro to live. TO LIVE! *Lifts laptop with 'Circle of Life' playing in the background*

**:. Avengers .:**

 

“What happened back there? You guys okay?” Clint Barton pauses on his way to the common kitchen when the elevator slides open to reveal the three grim-faced men. Natasha lifts her head from where she’s examining Wanda’s bruised cheek.

“No,” Tony says shortly, already striding toward the nearest StarkPad. “Wilson, you got Redwing out there searching the area?”

“Yup, little guy can’t have gone too far on foot,” Sam replies evenly. He pauses when he catches sight of Steve’s lost expression and reaches out to clap the other man on the shoulder. “Cap, it’s gonna be okay. We’ll find him and sort this out.”

“Sort what out?” Clint asks, doubling back to the couch and handing Pietro an ice pack from the fridge. “Put that on your torso, kiddo.”

“Cap got hit by Sinister’s beam,” Tony says, pulling up a 4D hologram of Manhattan. Clint makes an alarmed noise and Tony sighs, “Yeah, It's not as erotic as it sounds.”

“Are you alright, Steve?” Natasha asks, getting to her feet after she gives the youngest female Avenger the good to go. Wanda blinks curiously at them.

“The Captain is different somehow…” She says, frowning. “Something has changed. He is less…”

Steve swipes a hand over his exhausted face, “I don’t know how, but the weapon made my pre-serum self appear out of nowhere and now we've lost him…”

“Time travel?” Natasha asks tensely.

“Not sure yet,” Tony says distractedly. “I’ve sent out a few drones to scout the area, as well as Sam’s Redwing. We should be able to find him soon.” He snaps his fingers and turns to all of them, “You know what, we could really use Thor and Bruce’s help right about now.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“It will be alright,” Wanda tells them. Steve sure hopes she’s right, because if he knows himself well enough, the first thing he’d do is try to find Bucky.

And that’s the one thing Steve hasn’t been able to accomplish in the last six months.

 

* * *

 

**.: The Winter** **Soldier :.**

 

He’s on one of his supply runs, cap pulled low over his head, backpack securely fastened and ready to break into a run if caught. He’s never been caught, not over the last few months.

He’s the shadow in the dark, a phantom, nothing else. And if recognition sets in even for a second, a bullet to the forehead ends things quite nicely.

He knows the authorities have not yet released an image of his face to the public, and a gut instinct tells him the luxury of privacy had come from the blond man with the familiar face.

The Soldier’s first failed mission.

Yet something about the man grated on his nerves. Too big hands in the place of thin artist fingers, too tall, too strong, too broad shoulders. Everything about him had seemed eerily familiar, yet not quite fitting into the image inside The Soldier’s head.

The image of his _true_ handler.

_His first handler._

He’s crossing the street in the Russians' territory when he catches a glimpse of a struggle in the depth of a dirty alley. Violence and crime is common in these parts of Hell’s Kitchen, but he’s never really bothered with interfering before.

The first rule of living a secret life is to not draw any attention to yourself.

He is nothing but a phantom.

The Soldier moves to make the next crossing.

“I ain’t got no money!” A small voice shouts, muffled with pain and full of fire.

His steps falter.

“Bucky’s gonna kick your asses, rascals!” The voice continues to yell.

_Bucky._

His first codename.

The Soldier moves before his mind actually registers the input.

Quick noiseless steps. A swift jabbing thrust to the diaphragm. Metal fingers crushing the trachea.

Threat #1 neutralized.

Chance of causing futher harm: 0%.

Warm copious amounts of blood bubbles up, soaking through the material of his glove as Threat #2 goes down on both knees after a hard punch to the nose. 

“Bucky?!” The voice asks, “Is that you? Thank God you're here, Buck. I don’t know what happened, what the hell is going on?”

He slowly tightens his fingers around the struggling man’s neck. Eyes going dull. Capillaries bursting. Skin purpling.

Anything that poses as a threat to his handler must be neutralized. 

“Bucky, stop!” The voice shouts, panicked.

_An Order._

The Soldier’s fingers immediately loosen around Threat #3’s neck. The man drops to the ground, coughing and retching out the contents of his stomach through his mouth and nose.

He forces his fists to unclench, resuming his familiar waiting stance.

“Ready to comply.” The words slip from his lips. Everything that has derailed in these past few months slip back into alinement.

_The Weapon has been returned to the hands of the rightful Handler._

“Bucky?” There’s the hint of tears in the voice now. “Look at me.”

The Soldier does as he is told.

The sight of his true handler makes him weak in the knees. He fights the overwhelmingly strong urge to fall to the small figure’s feet and bare his throat in submission.

Anything to please his handler.

 _Anything_. 

“Bucky, what happened to you?” Moist blue eyes land on his face, his rough, unwashed, and bearded face. The Soldier looks away, shame burning low in his gut.

The Weapon should be in top condition when it is in its handler’s presence.

He has failed once again.

He does not expect his handler to rush at him, wrap thin frail arms tightly around his waist and tuck his small face into The Soldier’s chest.

“Bucky, what is going on? I don’t understand. I saw you yesterday before your date with Mildred, and you looked alright,” The Handler pulls back, nose wrinkling a little as he looks up at The Soldier with concerned eyes. “Now you smell just a tad bit better than those dumpsters. And how did you crop up a full beard overnight?”

The Soldier does not reply. The handler’s words are not a direct order. His instincts are telling him to move. It is not safe to be stationary for too long. Now that he has found his true handler, there is no reason to linger in this city any longer.

The man with the familiar face had lied to him. He is not the Soldier’s one true handler.

The Soldier would kill him next time they crossed paths.

“Buck, what are you doing?” His handler asks, puzzled when he lifts the smaller man into his arms. “Hey, easy there, big guy. Did I hit my head and fall into a coma while Mildred locked you up in her pa’s wine cellar or something? You look like a bum, Bucky."

He doesn’t answer.

“Say something!” Fingers pinch his left ear.

_An Order._

The Soldier pauses.

“I will protect you.” He tells his handler before resuming his steps.

“No, stop, Buck! Put me down.” His handler shouts.

He does as he is told.

His handler is frowning up at him. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you like this? Are those thugs alright? Did you kill them?”

He stares blankly down at the small man.

“Answer me!”

Red-rimmed eyes.

Distress. Fear. Aversion.

_An Order._

“No.” He says, reaching out a hand to cup his handler’s pale cheek with his right hand.

“No what?” Artist’s fingers thread through his.

“They are alive.” He says shortly.

His handler swallows, voice going thick as he asks, “What is my name, Buck? Tell me my name.”

The Soldier pauses. Uncertain. His reluctance seems to have increased the Handler’s distress.

“The Handler.” He says blankly.

To his confusion, great fat tears of water start rolling down his handler’s cheeks. The Handler grabs tightly onto his hand as he chokes out, “Please tell me you’re just drunk, Bucky, please tell me this is a joke. Bucky, why are you like this? I’m Steve, Bucky, I’m your Stevie…what's wrong with you? What's wrong with everything?”

The words are not an order.

But something in The Soldier’s chest feels like it is being torn apart at the sound of the body-wracking sobs.

His shoulders tense when he catches a glimpse of a red drone hovering in the sky over his handler’s shoulder. The noise must have attracted the thing. The Soldier pulls back sharply and draws out a gun from his ankle holster, firing at the drone’s lens with three rapid shots. It goes down in a shower of sparks.

The handler jumps at the noise.

They have run out of time. Their enemies have found them. The Soldier needs to get his handler to a safe location.

He will not fail his mission this time.

The Soldier reels the small man into his chest and knocks him out with a careful knife hand to the neck.

Time to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, the guy whose trachea got crushed died. Happy Father's Day, everyone. 
> 
> POP ME A COMMENT, I COMMAND YOU. Nicely. 
> 
> Please? :D


	3. And the nightmare I had was as bad as can be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the shaky footage, Steve still manages to catch a brief glimpse of the mystery man’s face. The image has him sucking in a sharp breath, his pulse skyrocketing.  
> 
> “Friday, enhance the image,” Tony says immediately. The AI does as she is told.
> 
> The three of them stare in silence at the haggard face of one James Buchanan Barnes. 
> 
> “Well, hello Handsome,” Tony says, stunned. 
> 
> “It’s him…” Steve breaths. "It's Bucky." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies :D 
> 
> Here's another chapter for you wonderful bastards! I swear, this is the most effort I have put into researching facts for a fic. Lol. 
> 
> Enjoy, and as always, leave this crayon some love!
> 
> Warning for this chapter: Very very obnoxious Tony Stark.

**:. Avengers .:**

 

He’s talking with Natasha when Tony comes bursting into the room without bothering to knock, his face uncharacteristically grim. 

“What’s wrong?” Steve’s on his feet in a fraction of a second. 

Tony averts his eyes. “Redwing was just compromised a few minutes ago.” 

“By what?” Natasha’s hand lands on Steve’s forearm, grounding him to the spot. “Did you get any useful feed from the cam?” 

“That’s just it,” Tony says, grabbing a fistful of his own hair and letting out a frustrated breath between his teeth. “We don’t know.” 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Steve prompts impatiently. 

“Whatever took out Redwing also short-circuited the live feed clip before we could get to the crucial part,” Tony explains, frustrated. “There’s been a system’s glitch and we’ve had this delay problem in the live stream for the past week or so. I was planning to work on it this weekend. Before Sinister decided to crash the party. Good news is that the feed can be accessed manually if we can retrieve the remains." 

“Well, do you have Redwing’s coordinates?” Steve asks tensely. 

“Yeah, it crashed somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen.” Tony replies. Steve grabs his jacket and keys, and pushes his way past the billionaire. 

Natasha folds her arms over her chest. "Steve." 

“Send the exact location to my phone and suit up, Stark. I’ll meet you guys there in five minutes.” Steve says, not bothering to look back at the other two Avengers. 

“Cap, one more thing you need to know,” Tony calls after him. He pauses at the elevator doors. 

“What?” Steve asks impatiently. 

“The police scanner we picked up said there was a casualty in the area.” Tony says, voice heavy. "Just thought I'd warn you..."

Steve’s jaw clenches tightly.   

“Thanks, Tony.” He says after a pause and steps into the waiting elevator. 

 

* * *

 

The sky over Manhattan has become a smoky purple by the time Steve arrives at the crime scene. Tony Stark has already put his Iron Man suit back inside its case and is bent over something with Sam Wilson. Natasha is speaking quietly to a nearby police officer. Steve gets off his motorcycle, flashes his SHIELD identification badge at the NYPD officers and ducks under the yellow police tape. 

“What took you so long, Cap?” Tony beckons his over with one hand, the other still digging around in the scattered remains of Redwing. 

“Rush-hour traffic, Stark,” He explains, “have you identified the body?”

“Yeah, it’s not Mini-You. Just some random crook on the street. Poor guy got his throat crushed. Died of asphyxiation. He had two other buddies who are currently on their way to the ER, one with a broken nose, the other a fractured jaw," Tony replies, giving a triumphant ‘a-ha’ when he finds the part he’s searching for. He beckons Steve over and gestures to the small metal chip lying in his palm, “See this baby? This is a memory port. Redwing has three additional backups. This one here hasn’t been harmed in the fire and heat when it went down. Wilson, StarkPad please.”   
   
Sam hands him the tablet from his backpack. 

Tony slots the chip into a hidden opening on the side of the tablet, “Friday, pull up the video feed of the incident.” 

“Right away, Boss.” 

There’s a steady aerial shot of the rooftops at first. Redwing dips into what looks like the alley they’re in. The three assailants Tony mentioned are strewn around on the ground. Steve sees the familiar tweed-clad shoulders of his former self standing in front of a crouching figure, his frame curled in on itself, shaking with what looks like violent tremors. Half hidden behind his old self, the other figure in the video has a dark cap pulled low over his eyes and a messy unkempt beard obscuring the lower half of his face. Then the mystery man lifts his head and spots Redwing over little Steve’s shoulder. His gloved fingers immediately reach for something strapped to his ankle, the other arm wrapping securely around his old self's waist and pulling him close.

The man raises his gun. 

The first bullet sends Redwing's camera veering off focus. The second cracks the bullet-proof lens cover and the third cuts off the feed all together. 

Despite the shaky footage, Steve still manages to catch a brief glimpse of the mystery man’s face. The image has him sucking in a sharp breath, his pulse skyrocketing.  

“Friday, enhance the image,” Tony says immediately. The AI does as she is told.

The three of them stare in silence at the haggard face of one James Buchanan Barnes. 

“Well, hello Handsome,” Tony says, stunned. 

“It’s him…” Steve breaths. "It's Bucky." 

 

* * *

 

Steve feels like he’s gone into shock. 

“How do these things happen?” Sam asks, shaking his head. “I mean, you two are like the opposite poles of a magnet. No matter what happens, you always gravitate toward each other. You're like a rotting peach and he's the fruit fly. Those things always appear out of nowhere, you know what I mean?" 

“I-but it’s been months since I last laid eyes on him,” Steve stammers, ignoring Sam's utterly ridiculous simile. Tony had wandered off a bit to examine the crime scene, and Natasha was still deep in conversation with the first-responder team. 

“Yeah, our last lead was that he’d been spotted in Romania, rooming with Dracula it would seem. I was gonna buy a pound of garlic to chase this one down.” Sam rubs at his face with a weary hand. “But apparently he never strayed far. You think he snagged the little guy against his will?” 

“No,” Steve shakes his head. Of this he is certain. “No, Bucky would never do anything to me against my will.”

“So, you’re not worried one bit?” Sam asks skeptically. 

Steve clenches his teeth, “Bucky would never hurt me.” 

“ _Right_.” He ignores Sam’s exaggerated eye-roll. 

“Hey guys, come here for a second,” Tony suddenly calls out to them, "These bullets here, they're armor-piercing rounds designed for handguns. That's why Redwing went down so easily. They've been banned in the United States since 1986,” he picks up one of the long shells and weighs it in the center of his palm. “These old-school baddies are a bit more effective than the teflon-coated ones available on today’s market.” He shrugs when Steve shoots him an impressed look, "Don't look so surprised, I know a thing or two about guns along with other weapons of war. I sold them for a living, remember?" 

Sam picks up another stray casing, “You’re right, they're not American-made." He squints at the miniscule writing on the bottom, “This looks like Russian to me." 

"There are three casings," Steve notes with a frown, "He must've been really rattled or feeling really protective." 

"What do you mean, Cap?" Tony asks, dropping the rounds back into the evidence bag he'd snagged from a nearby police officer. 

"Bucky's a trained sniper, the Winter Soldier even more so. He could've taken Redwing out with just one shot. Instead, he took three. Three bullets to be absolutely certain to put whatever's been monitoring him into the ground for good..." 

"Well, I wouldn't blame him,” Tony says, "he was carrying precious cargo." 

“Precious cargo, huh?” Steve can’t help but smile a little at that. Precious cargo indeed. “Do we have any witnesses who saw where they went next?” 

“As a matter of fact we do,” Natasha interrupts their little conversation. Behind Black Widow, their sole witness pushes her way past the officers and stops beside her. 

“Lordy, this is gonna be good,” Tony says after a pause, an obnoxious grin breaking out over his face. 

 

* * *

 

“Do any of you understand a single word coming out of her mouth right now? I think I might actually be having a stroke right now.” Tony interrupts the witness, a cigarette-smoking woman with a mess of glittery mascara caked on her face, in the middle of her animated story. He presses the back of his hand dramatically over his eyes and attempts to fall into Natasha's arms. 

Natasha turns one of her ball-shriveling, dead-eyed, murderous stares on him. “Yes, Stark. She says she saw the whole thing from her balcony.” 

“Right,” Tony nods, trying to ignore the line of cold sweat rolling down his spine as he gingerly retreats a step. “And what were you doing on said balcony at the time?” He runs his eyes down her scantily-dressed form and spots the tell-tale string of a red thong. “Let me guess. Giving a BJ perhaps?”

“I was,” The woman says proudly in a heavy accent, or at least that’s what Tony thinks she said. Tony nods, satisfied. 

“You know you live in the Big Apple when the hooker population here is more racially-diverse than the entire state of New Hampshire.” He marvels with an appreciative sigh. 

“Stark, stop it.” Steve shoots him a disapproving look. “Ma’am, did you see where they went?” 

“Of course, saw the whole thing. The big one threw the little one over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and went into building over there,” The woman points a ruby red nail at the apartment building behind them. There’s a pause while all four Avengers turn to stare at the ominously dark building. 

“Man of Steel, after you,” Sam, dressed in a white shirt, blue jeans and wearing no other form of protection, claps Iron Man on the shoulder and jerks his chin toward the back exit of the apartment complex. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Information about the bullets can be found here:  
> http://www.outdoorhub.com/stories/2015/06/11/5-most-controversial-handgun-rounds/


	4. It scared me out of my wits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Steve’s memory, Times Square had always been a sea of lights, shiny black automobiles, and beautifully dressed women laughing on the arms of handsome men. Humphrey Bogart’s face had lit up the night sky along with other ads, Admiral Television Appliances, Planters Peanuts, Camel Cigarettes. For a small man like him, it had been easy to get swept off his feet in the hustle and bustle of the busy Manhattan streets. The last time he and Bucky had set foot in Times Square had been to catch the premiere of The Wizard of Oz, because Bucky had had the biggest crush on Judy Garland at the time.

**.: Pre-Serum Steve :.**

 

When Steve next opens his eyes, the sky is a deep indigo blue. There is a smattering of diamond-like stars twinkling in its depth. He stares for a long moment before he realizes where he is.

Tucked against a firm chest.

Warmth.

The steady beat of a strong heart close by.

He’s being carried in Bucky’s arms.

“Bucky,” Steve wriggles like a small child, “Down. Please.”

The man stops immediately and sets him on his feet like something precious. This close, he can see the tired rough lines of Bucky’s gaunt face.

Same eyes, same features, same voice, yet different.

“We need to keep moving,” Bucky says. “Let the crowd conceal us, Sir.”

No, not the same voice. The laughter in there is gone, because this Bucky is so very much broken.

He swallows past the hurt and confusion. “What happened back there? Where are we going, Buck? And stop calling me ‘Sir.’”

“Safehouse.” The man in front of him stands and shrugs off his thick jacket. He drops it over Steve’s shoulders, crouches down and deftly zips the jacket before picking up his black backpack again. Bucky tugs his cap down over his alert eyes, “If they find us, they will take you away from me.”

“They?” Steve thinks back to the costumed weirdos he’d see today.

“I won’t let them,” Bucky promises in that clipped machine-like voice.

“And I won’t let them take you either,” Steve answers, rolling up the long sleeves to his wrists. He reaches out and takes Bucky’s right hand. “End of the line, remember? They won’t get rid of me that easily, whoever those nut jobs are. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

 

* * *

 

He’s at a loss for words.

In Steve’s memory, Times Square had always been a sea of lights, shiny black automobiles, and beautifully dressed women laughing on the arms of handsome men. Humphrey Bogart’s face had lit up the night sky along with other ads, Admiral Television Appliances, Planters Peanuts, Camel Cigarettes. For a small man like him, it had been easy to get swept off his feet in the hustle and bustle of the busy Manhattan streets. The last time he and Bucky had set foot in Times Square had been to catch the premiere of _The Wizard of_ Oz, because Bucky had had the biggest crush on Judy Garland at the time.

But now...

They’re like two small minnows swimming against the current and a whole school of fish.

All around Steve, the sounds, smells, and sights are enough to kick the neurons in his brain into overdrive. There are men, dressed in long overcoats, shiny leather briefcase in one hand and a small flat glowing rectangle in the other; women showing so much skin that Steve dares not look upon them; bright-eyed children who happily clutch at their parents' hands, their mouths filled with candies and sweets. The night is almost as brightly lit as day by the giant screens on the sides of the tall buildings. Light reflects off of the sleek yellow paint of taxi cars and motorbikes. Drivers honk and stick their heads out of their windows to shout at each other as their vehicles crawl by. The advertisements on the other hand, flash by almost too fast for Steve to read. He sees cartoons, animated figures, models, beverages served in red cans...

This does not look like a country about to head into a world war.

Steve does not realize that he’s stopped in his tracks until Bucky’s gloved fingers slip from his own. He stands there, in the midst of all that light, all that sound and just breathes.

The giant screen across from him flashes the number ‘2016’ in big white blocky letters.

And he suddenly realizes that he’s the thing that’s out of place.

A man out of time.

Lost.

He is the one that does not belong.

_But then, how is Bucky also here?_

A hand lands on his shoulder. Steve flinches out of his trance. Bucky pulls him close to his side.

“Stay close to me, Sir.” Bucky says as they being walking against the current again.

Steve swallows. His heart is pounding too hard. He needs to calm himself down before he panics and have a-

Too late.

“Bu-Bucky…” He grabs at Bucky’s forearm as he chokes out the words. “I can…I ca-can’t breath!”

Bucky’s reaction is almost immediate, lifting his small body off the ground and breaking into a run. Past the roar of blood pounding in his ears, Steve hears the muffled sounds of complaining and cursing as Bucky bulldozes his way through the crowd.

“Hang on, Steve,” Bucky snarls, panting as he runs.

He might’ve been hallucinating from the sudden lack of oxygen, but Steve swears he hears Bucky calling his name, not ‘The Handler’, not ‘Sir’, but Steve.

_Stevie. Breath._

_Come on, you little punk._

He tries to tune his breathing to the beat of Bucky’s heart like he always does when he gets a sudden and unexpected asthma attack.

Three beats. Breath in. Hold for two. Three beats. Breath out.

Bucky kicks down a door. There’s a splash of brightness against Steve’s closed eyelids. Bucky shifts his grip around him. The sound of a cocked gun. A woman’s horrified gasp.

“Get me an asthma inhaler now,” Bucky rasps. Steve can feel the rapid beat of Bucky's pulse against his cheek now that his head has rolled weakly onto the other man’s shoulder.

“Sir, is your child allergic to-” He hears the pharmacist stammer.

“No, move!” Bucky roars, taking out the camera above the woman’s head with one shot.

“Bucky, don't…” Steve gasps past his wheezing. He hears the sound of the woman’s frantic fumbling. Something drops. A hand is petting Steve’s hair, telling him it’s going to be okay.

Then Bucky props him upright on the counter, presses the plastic nozzle of something against his trembling lips and orders him to breath in as deeply as he can.

Steve does as he is told, clutching at Bucky’s wrist like a lifeline.

Three wheezing gasps later, he feels air come rushing back into his lungs. Steve coughs wetly and a warm palm runs down his bony spine as his heart-rate slows. He buries his face into Bucky’s chest and grabs a handful of his maroon shirt.

“Please don’t kill me, sir. This is my first day working the night shift. I’m just a student, I-” The woman is sobbing quietly.

Steve lifts his head with some difficulty. He drops a small hand over Bucky’s, the one still holding up the gun. “Buck, stop. She helped me. Don’t hurt her, please.”

He twists around and tries to smile at her, but with Bucky’s right arm wrapped tightly around his waist and the other holding a gun, they don’t really paint the most reassuring picture.

“Stacey?” Steve squints at the name on her white coat. “I apologize for the scare.”

Through the tears and runny makeup, she frowns in confusion as she stares between the two of them. “You’re not his…son?”

Steve can’t quite hold back the smile as he shakes his head. He understands how she may have made that mistake, what with Bucky’s unkempt beard and his own small stature. “No, I’m not. He’s my friend. He looks scary, but he’s actually not. Bucky, put down the gun.” Steve tightens the bracket of his knees against Bucky’s sides in warning. Bucky reluctantly lowers his arm.

“Thank you for this,” Steve holds up the inhaler, “how much do we owe you?”

“Uh, $33.98, plus taxes,” Stacey stammers, ringing up the inhaler on her register. Steve blinks in shock.

“34 whole bucks? Hell, that’s enough to feed the whole Barnes family for three weeks, Buck. No wonder this medicine is so effective,” he exclaims, turning to peer up at his best friend. He doesn’t catch sight of the clear confusion on the pharmacist’s face. “Buck, we got any money left?”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “No.”

“Oh.” Steve bites his lower lip, trying to think. Stacy stares nervously between the two of them. Bucky scowls.

“How about I give you my grandfather’s wristwatch? I’m really sorry, but I don’t have any other thing of value on me right now, and I doubt we’ll be coming back anytime soon,” Steve apologizes, groping under Bucky’s huge jacket sleeve for the silver watch on his left wrist. “If there’s a pawn shop nearby, maybe you can-”

Bucky tosses his backpack onto the counter with a deafening bang, making both of them jump. With one arm still firmly looped around Steve’s waist, he pulls out a bag of something white and powdery.

“Payment,” He growls, slamming it down on the countertop, “Call anyone and I will come back and snap your neck.”

He picks Steve up off the counter and sets him down carefully on the ground. Steve pockets the magic medicine and frowns. “Bucky, this ain’t the Stone Age, you can’t just trade in a pound of sugar for 34 bucks worth of medicine. She’s not stupid.”

Bucky ignores his unhappy rant and ushers him impatiently out the door of the empty drug store. He shoots out three additional surveillance cameras and grabs a box of granola bars and two bottles of water as an afterthought.

 

* * *

 

 

_^ 1936 Times Square Astor, Minsky's Gaiety (Victoria) and Loew's State_

__

_^ Modern-day Times Square_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The black and white picture came from http://s18.photobucket.com/user/GuanoReturns/media/Manhattan%20Movie%20Theaters/Astor%20Theater/AstorLloydsofLondon.jpg.html?sort=2&o=2
> 
> The modern New York Picture I Googled. 
> 
> Fun Facts of this chapter:  
> 1\. The Wizard of Oz came out in 1939, and was MGM's most expensive film at that time.
> 
> 2\. Druggist and Pharmacist were used interchangeably during the 1940s. Read the following link if you are interested in learning more. (http://jordynredwood.blogspot.com/2011/02/pharmacy-in-world-war-iithe-pharmacist.html)
> 
> 3\. $34 in 1942 is roughly equal to $518.82 in 2016, with an annual inflation of 3.75% and a total inflation of 1425.97%
> 
> 4\. Stevie, that's not a bag of sugar there, Honey.
> 
> Enjoy and drop me a comment below. Also, please point me toward any inaccuracies I may have overlooked.


	5. A corpse falling to bits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The footage freezes on the last frame. It’s of Barnes leading the small blond man out of the store, gun raised in his left hand and pointing directly at the camera lens. Steve’s former-self glares defiantly out at them from the screen of the StarkPad.
> 
> “Léon and Mathilda,” Natasha murmurs suddenly, the tip of her boot nudging Tony’s thigh from where she’s perched next to him. He blinks at her and arches a brow.
> 
> “Really? Léon: The Professional?” Tony snorts, ignoring Steve’s puzzled look, “Then what does that make us?”
> 
> She shrugs, her beautiful face unreadable.
> 
> “Stansfield, perhaps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter! Please drop me a comment, they really do make my day and inspire me to write more. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**:. Avengers .:**

 

The apartment lead is a fake.

By the time they file out of the narrow hallway, the Iron Man armor has left a long line of deep grooves along the rough peeling walls, and the owner of the building kicks them out after confiscating Tony’s wallet for the repairs.

When the four of them finally get to the pharmacy, the distressed young woman behind the counter tells them that they’re forty minutes too late. Tony walks over to examine a destroyed surveillance camera while Sam bends down to inspect a fallen rack of items. Natasha and Steve approach the counter.

“Ma’am,” Steve greets the pharmacist with a reassuring smile. Natasha flashes her SHIELD badge at her and Steve pulls out his wallet and flips it open, “is this the man you saw just now?”

The pharmacist, Stacy, squints down at the laminated photo. “I-I think so. I mean, he looked rougher and had longer hair and a beard, but the eyes look the same. And...he wasn’t alone...”

“Right, of course not,” Steve nods, jaw clenching.

“You have a picture of him in your wallet? And here I thought you couldn’t get any more old-fashioned, Rogers,” Tony’s incredulous voice asks behind them. He squeezes his way through and taps impatiently on the countertop. “Hi. Stacey is it? Can I call you Stace? I need to take a look at your surveillance footage of tonight, darling.”

“Thanks Beautiful,” Tony blows her a kiss when Stacey lets him into the office behind the counter. Sam wanders over to join them.

“Can you describe what happened?” Natasha prompts, pulling the pharmacist’s attention back to the three of them.

“It was on a typical night shift, and then they, that man in the photo and this small blond man, came bursting in. He was in the middle of an asthma attack, the little one. I thought they were father and son, but then the taller one pulled out a gun and demanded that I get him an inhaler-” She takes a deep shaking breath and looks at them pleadingly, “He told me he’d come back and kill me if I told anyone…”

“What did they take?” Steve asks her.

“Uh, not much. Just some energy bars, water and the inhaler,” Stacey tells him, wiping at her distraught face.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I’m guessing they didn't pay for the things they grabbed,” Steve pulls out his wallet and hands her his credit card, “put the items on my tab. Also, can I have one of those inhalers as well?”

She takes his card, but hesitates before opening her mouth again, “about that, they actually did try to pay. He left this, the tall scary one.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. Stacey ducks underneath the counter and fishes out a bag of something white. She sets it gingerly on the table and Steve sucks in a sharp breath.

“That’s a pound of cocaine right?” Sam asks flatly.

“It’s heroin,” Natasha replies, flipping the package over and running her thumb over the small white card inside.

A red snake.

“Why would he be in possession of heroin?” Steve asks tensely.

“I don’t know,” Natasha straightens and pulls out her phone, “but Clint might know someone who does.”

“Clint?” Sam looks equally lost.

“Hey Barton, I need you to call up your dumpster buddy. We need his help with the lead we’re pursuing,” Natasha eases herself onto the countertop and dangles her long legs over the edge. She drums her fingers restlessly on the tabletop. “Things just got complicated. Barnes had a bag of heroin with the mark of the Steel Serpent inside.”

“Steel Serpent?” Steve asks Sam.

Sam shrugs, “I’m as lost as you, man.”

“Thanks, bye.” Natasha hangs up and turns to the two men. “Clint’s gonna call back when he gets something from him.”

“Ladies, you may want to take a look at this,” Tony calls out to them as he steps out of the back office. “I pulled a fraction of the surveillance footage from the cams, and Cap’s right. This ain’t no ordinary abduction.”

They all stare down at the grainy video. The Winter Soldier wraps a protective arm around Steve’s former self’s slim waist and lifts him off of the countertop. The small blond man grabs possessively onto one gloved hand. He’s wearing a bulky jacket too big for his tiny frame. The Winter Soldier herds him gently toward the exit.

“He thinks I’m his handler,” Steve breathes, heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t understand how, but he just…knows...

The footage freezes on the last frame. It’s of Barnes leading the small blond man out of the store, the gun in his left hand pointing directly at the camera lens. Steve’s former-self glares defiantly out at them from the screen of the StarkPad.

“Léon and Mathilda,” Natasha murmurs suddenly, the tip of her boot nudging Tony’s thigh from where she’s perched next to him. He blinks at her and arches a brow.

“Really? _Léon: The Professional_?” Tony snorts, ignoring Steve’s puzzled look, “Then what does that make us?”

She shrugs, her beautiful face unreadable.

“Stansfield, perhaps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The dumpster friend is Matt Murdock, aka Daredevil.
> 
> 2\. If you haven't seen the first season of the Daredevil series on Netflix, Madame Gao is the head of a heroin trafficking ring in Hell’s Kitchen, New York, and in the baggies of heroin (carried by blind backpackers), there’s a little white card with a red serpent on it. The pattern is the mark of the Steel Serpent, which is also on Iron Fist’s chest. I verified this with Google and a Marvel discussion page.
> 
> 3\. Yes, Bucky has been picking off Madame Gao’s drug traffickers to steal their stash and trade them for weapons and ammunition during his time in Hell’s Kitchen. 
> 
> 4\. Léon: The Professional is a 1994 film starring Jean Reno, Gary Oldman, and Natalie Portman. Natasha was referencing that Bucky was like Léon (a skilled assassin), and his relationship with Little Steve similar to the one portrayed in the film with Mathilda (a 12-year-old orphan). Stansfield (portrayed by Oldman) is a psychotic DEA agent who kills her entire family and tries to hunt down Mathilda to kill her as well. It’s been a while since I last watched the movie, so I might not remember it very well. But it was a great film. Would recommend.
> 
> 4\. I am thinking of having the Daredevil cast come in. Tell me what you think. 
> 
> Beanie and I were talking and it occurred to us that if the Winter Soldier took Natasha away from the Red Room to raise, it would be very similar to Léon and Mathilda's relationship. Suffice to say, I gratuitously used it on tiny Steve.


	6. Then I opened my eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did it hurt?” Steve’s muffled voice is unsteady as his fingers brush the map of raised scar tissue at the end of the prosthetic arm.
> 
> The words are oddly familiar, an echo of something someone had uttered long ago. But The Soldier can’t seem to recall who had said them.
> 
> “Not anymore.”

**.: The Winter Soldier :.**

 

He takes The Handler to one of his numerous safe houses. The place is situated near the East River, the Brooklyn Bridge glimmering in the near distance. Somehow, it’s the one he finds himself gravitating toward immediately.

He had rented a small secluded apartment on the top floor of one of the rundown buildings. The owners, an old Chinese couple who did not speak English, tend to leave The Soldier alone on most days. Compared to the crackheads and ex-cons living in the same building, he’s the dream tenant, paying a year of rent in advance and never actually lingering for more than two days at a time.

“Is this where you live, Bucky?” The small blond man asks curiously when The Soldier shuts the door behind them, bolting it shut carefully and scanning the room. Judging by the strategic placement of his untouched traps, no one but himself had entered the apartment in the last month.

"Jesus Christ, it smells like someone died in here," His handler exclaims, wrinkling his nose before turning to The Soldier with alarmed blue eyes. "Don't tell me someone actually died in here, Buck."

"No one died in here," he replies mechanically, dropping his backpack to the floor with a muffled thud. A thick cloud of dust rises like a minature nuclear bomb at the impact. Steve inhales and sneezes loudly. The Soldier frowns, instantly regretting his careless action.

Eyes swimming with tears, the blond man staggers blindly toward one of the grimy windows. The Soldier snags his sleeve before he can touch the sill. "Careful. Traps."

He disables the coiled mechanism secured on the inner sill and lifts the window pane to let in a cool clean gust of night air. Steve wipes at his red nose and sniffs, smiling up at him gratefully.

“Thanks,” He says when the coughing subsides. The Soldier nods wordlessly and retreats a respectful distance. He stands there, eyes taking in the small figure in front of him. Steve’s blond hair glimmers in the dim street lights outside. The Soldier wonders how the fine golden strands would feel sliding through his fingers. Would it feel as soft as it looks?

He clenches his fist against the intense urge to reach out and touch. He cannot. The Soldier is an object, a calibrated machine. _It_ should not feel, his other handlers had seared that into his skull.

“Bucky, Bucky!”

He flinches back when he realizes the small man had been speaking to him and he had zoned out without permission. He expects to be struck, but Steve’s fingers are gentle and cautious when they touch the back of his hand.

“Bucky, who’s after us? Why are you like this? I still don’t understand…” There is a pleading note of urgency in his soft voice. “Explain to me what exactly is going on.”

It is an order, unconsciously given, but an order nonetheless. The Soldier’s mouth opens automatically and out comes the events of the last few months expressed in short clipped words. He sees dawning horror on the Handler’s face, gradually replaced with sadness and pain as he speaks. Steve takes a step back and The Soldier’s hand shoots out, wrapping around his forearm without warning. The Handler does not flinch away from the contact as he had expected.

So he says brokenly, “please don’t leave me.”

 _Pathetic,_ a sneering cold voice echoes in his head. _Pathetic and useless mutt._

“I won’t,” Warm fingers sneak beneath the hard durable material of his gloves and press reassuringly against the sliver of skin on his exposed wrist. “I promise.”

The Soldier lifts his eyes and finds his handler’s small pale face. Steve’s expression had hardened into anger, his bright blue eyes flashing with what looked like barely constrained fury. His face softens when his eyes meet that of The Soldier's. 

“I promise,” He repeats tightly, gesturing to the dusty mattress a few feet away, “I was just going to suggest that we move this conversation elsewhere and sit down. You look like you could use some rest, Bucky. And a bath and maybe some food.”

Steve guides him gently over to the mattress, offering him a rewarding smile and telling him to stay. He watches as The Handler crosses over to the other side of the room that served as a kitchen in the tiny apartment, standing on tiptoes to open each cabinet and peer inside. Aside from some skittering cockroaches and spiderwebs, there wasn’t much. His fridge had broken down ages ago.

“Do you not feed yourself, Buck?” Steve asks irritably when he returns empty-handed. The Soldier gestures wordlessly to the black backpack by the door.

“Oh, right. Almost forgot,” The Handler says, brightening. “Good thinking, Bucky.”

He preens silently at the compliment and ignores the raised eyebrow when Steve finds more “sugar” stashed in his bag among other things.

Steve divides up the granola bars and water between the two of them, ordering The Soldier to eat as he sips slowly at a bottle of water. He doesn’t feel particularly hungry, his body having been altered long ago to ignore minor urges such as eating and sleeping, but The Soldier does as he is told, chewing mechanically while his gaze never leaves the figure sitting on the bed next to him.

Steve is watching him thoughtfully. “I really think you need a bath, buddy.” He eventually says. “And a good shave.”

He swallows the last piece of the granola bar and eyes the small blond man wordlessly. Steve purses his lips and reaches out, his hands stopping a few inches away and silently asking for permission to continue. The Soldier makes no move to stop his handler when the soft fingers begin to deftly strip him of his dirty button-down shirt. He hangs his head obediently when The Handler moves behind him to free his arms from the sleeves, his face safely hidden behind a curtain of long mangy hair.

The Soldier hears a sniffle. Then another. And another.

Something warm and wet lands on the exposed skin of his left shoulder.

“Did it hurt?” Steve’s muffled voice is unsteady as his fingers brush the map of raised scar tissue at the end of the prosthetic arm.

The words are oddly familiar, an echo of something someone had uttered long ago. But The Soldier can’t seem to recall who had said them.

“Not anymore.”

There is silence as The Handler traces the endless scars crisscrossing his neck and back. Then The Soldier feels a light weight settle against his spine, thin arms coming to wrap around his bare waist and pinning him down. He regards Steve’s hands with a passive eye.

The fingers are long and tapered. They are big strong hands on such a small man. An artist’s hands. He suddenly recalls the phantom scent of old oil paints, wooden canvases, and sunlight.

“You used to…paint…” The words are more of a question than a statement, but he feels a huff of warm air against his skin.

“Still do,” Steve says without pulling away. 

Mesmerized, The Soldier lifts one of his hands and sucks the middle finger into his mouth, lapping at the long digit with his tongue as if he can somehow taste the lingering presence of oils and paint.

“B-Bucky? What are you doing?” Behind him, The Handler stutters, stunned and blushing a deep crimson.

But before The Soldier can explain his odd behavior, a knock sounds at the door and he goes rigid in Steve's arms. 

_Had they been followed?_

The Soldier turns to his wide-eyed handler and presses a finger to his lips. He pulls a semi-automatic out from underneath the old mattress and twists to face the door. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> The ending will obviously be very happy and perhaps with a pinch of smut. You all know I'm 100% recyclable Stucky trash. Come on, hop on the garbage truck.


End file.
